Tuesday, August 28, 2012

There should’ve been a chalk outline at the driving range on Saturday, such was the crime scene that unfolded there, and the prime suspect was yours truly. I’d like to tell you I killed it–in the good sense of the word–but reality had a markedly different recounting of what happened. Indeed, the only thing I killed was competency, last sighted in April, now dead and buried in the firmament.

I want to blame it on the mat. When I thought I had divined the secrets of golf a few weeks ago, I was hitting off of one. This time, I was on the grass. Theoretically, I know the experience shouldn’t be that different, but this knowledge offered small comfort. My backswing also felt tense and unnatural. Final accounting? Out of the 70-odd balls I hit, I was only satisfied with three of them. That is some bad math, any way you slice it.

A scant four days from now, I will play my first full round in years. I’m nervous. I’m sure my lack of consistent practice hasn’t helped matters at all, and I wish I had gone more. But I’m out of time. The source of my anxiety, in truth, is only a few seconds in duration. It’s the first tee off, where all eyes are on you: the rest of your foursome waiting for you to begin, the foursomes behind you secretly anticipating catastrophe, and your own eyes peering at a far point on the fairway, hoping luck will bear your ball beyond reproach. I just need to make it through that first swing–and then the other 200-something strokes will be gravy.